When I went round the trenches a day or two before we were to move in, the
great frost was still in possession; but there was a mild feeling in the
air.
"I can thoroughly recommend these trenches to you, Sir," said the occupier
in a businesslike manner. "Commodious and well built, fitted throughout
with the latest pattern duck-boards and reached by three charmingly
sequestered communication trenches, named Hic, Haec and Hoc. The dug-outs
are well equipped and well sunk. The whole would form an ideal retreat for
gentlemen of quiet tastes."
"Good. And the people over the way?"
"Unobtrusive and retiring to a degree."
"In fact," I said, "a most select neighbourhood--unless it thaws."
He dropped pleasantries and answered very seriously. "If it thaws, Heaven
help you. There's enough water frozen up in these walls to drown the lot of
you."
It did thaw.
When we relieved, we waded up to the line through miles of trenches all
knee-deep in water, to the accompaniment of ominous splashes as the sides
began to fall in. When daylight came we found our select estate converted
into a system of canals filled with a substance varying in consistency from
coffee to glue. Hic, Haec and Hoc, owing to the wear and tear of constant
traffic, became especially gluey, and after a time we rechristened them
respectively the Great Ooze, the Little Ooze and the River Styx--the last
not solely in reference to its adhesive qualities, but also because such a
number of things went West in it. Some time after the original duck-boards
had sunk out of our depth we could still move along Styx on a solid bottom
composed of lost gum-boots, abandoned rations and the like. At last, when
Frankie, struggling up to the line with the rum ration, was forced to dump
his precious burden in order to save his life, we pronounced Styx
impassable and thenceforth proceeded along the top after dusk.
The Great Ooze still remained just possible for those whose business took
them back and forward during the day, but even here were spots in which it
was worse than unwise to linger. As I squelched painfully through one of
these on our last day in the line, I found one Private Harrison firmly
embedded to the top of his thigh-boots. He told me he had been struggling
vainly for about an hour.
"Give me your hands," I said.
I tugged, but could get no proper purchase. Harrison grew gradually black
in the face, but remained immovable. I tried another plan. I turned about,
and Harrison clasped his hands round my neck. Then I walked away.... At
least that was the idea.
"Harrison," I said anxiously after a determined struggle, "were you
standing on the duckboards?"
"Yes, Sir. I still am."
"Heavens, so am I. Let go. I've got to get myself out now."
By using Harrison as a stepping-stone to higher things I just managed to
heave myself out. I surveyed him panting.
"In about an hour it'll be dusk. I'll bring some men and a rope and haul
you out then. If that fails we'll simply have to hand you over as trench
stores when we get relieved."
As soon as Fritz's wire had disappeared into the gathering gloom I took out
my little rescue party. We threw the captive a rope and began to pull
scientifically under direction of a sergeant skilled in tugs-of-war.
"Heave, you men," I whispered excitedly. "He's coming."
He was, but without his boots. Inch by inch we dragged him out of them. The
strain was terrific. Suddenly--much too suddenly--the tension broke.
Harrison shot into the air and fell again with a dull thud in the Ooze
beside his boots, while the rescue party collapsed head over heels into an
adjacent shell-hole.
Harrison seemed a little peevish, but consented to try again. The rope
tautened, and there was a sharp crack from below.
"'Old on," cried the prisoner sharply, "me braces is bust."
"Can't think o' braces now," grunted my burly sergeant. "Heave-ho, lads, up
she comes!"
Harrison was pulled clean out of his nether garments, cursing bitterly as
the wind caught his bare legs, and hung suspended between earth and water,
amid ribald comments from above.
One more pull would do it. But at that moment Fritz, apparently feeling
that we weren't taking his war seriously enough, opened up with a
machine-gun. The rescue party dropped the rope and rolled heavily into the
shell-hole, and the sorely tried Harrison found himself back again, but
face downwards this time, and held by his arms up to the elbows.
We could hear horrible language, and after a moment, all being quiet, I
crawled to the edge and looked over. His last struggle had split Harrison's
tunic and pulled it clean off his back; and now, with his shirt-tail
trailing dismally in the Ooze, he was making the best of his own way to the
dressing-station, ungratefully consigning his gallant rescuers to complete
and lasting perdition as he went.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A LOT OF KHAKI ABOUT, WAITER."
"YES, SIR. IT MAKES SOME OF US OLDER ONES FEEL A BIT MUFTI, DON'T IT?"]
* * * * *